Telephone
by underourfeet
Summary: Harry has a hard time moving on.


The telephone rang.

Harry sighed. He glanced at the far wall, shook his head emphatically, and continued scribbling.

It rang again. He ignored it.

After a couple more rings, the voicemail picked up. Harry heard his own voice, flattened and monotonous, telling the caller to leave a message and he'd get back to them as soon as possible.

"Harry… Please. Please call me back. I… I want to explain. I'm not asking for you to forgive me, but please just let me explain. Okay? …Call me back." The machine disconnected.

At the coffee table, Harry sat frozen, quill suspended over parchment, eyes shut tightly against the voice that had filled the small flat moments ago. Slowly he unclenched his hand, which had been threatening to snap his quill in two. He released a breath and his eyes fluttered open. He continued writing.

* * *

Harry strode up the paved walkway toward the small blue house. He hopped up the front steps and knocked firmly on the red front door.

"Ron, answer it! It's Harry!" Harry smiled. Some things never changed.

"Mate!" Ron exclaimed as he pulled the door open. He enveloped Harry in a firm hug, and Harry squeezed him back, holding on perhaps a bit too long. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages." Harry opened his mouth to reply – some excuse about being busy, working all the time – but was interrupted by the sound of two little voices screeching, "Uncle Harry! Uncle Harry!"

Harry grinned, and Ron moved to the side as two red-headed children came running down the hallway. Harry crouched, arms out, and the two delighted kids barreled into him, almost knocking him over in their excitement.

Ten minutes later found him at Ron's and Hermione's kitchen table, hands curled around a cup of tea. They'd asked him if he wanted coffee, but his throat had closed up and he'd only been able to shake his head. No coffee.

Hermione put her hand on his arm. "I can tell you don't want to talk about it right now, but, Harry, we're here if you ever need us." Ron nodded in agreement.

Harry smiled at them. "Thanks," he said, "but just being here helps. I've missed you guys. I've got to stop being such a bad friend." They immediately started protesting, and Harry laughed. They talked of work and friends and the kids, and Harry almost didn't think about him at all.

* * *

There was nothing to watch on the telly. Harry had to choose between the news, the formation of the earth, or a bunch of shallow women fighting over whose husband was richer. After watching the women bicker for a few minutes, Harry's head started to ache. He clicked it off and turned to his takeaway.

He took his time, contemplating every noodle before eating it. Its size and shape, color, flavor. Compared it to the other noodles. The bits of chicken garnered even more scrutiny.

Sighing, he dropped his fork and threw himself back into the couch cushions. He was pathetic. Analyzing noodles and watching ignorant housewives in order to distract his brain. Why couldn't he just forget? Be strong and say "Your loss," and all that? That's how he wanted to feel. Why couldn't he just feel it?

Harry got up and threw out his half-eaten food, walked into his bedroom and climbed into bed, fully-clothed. He was just going to accept it and be pathetic. He didn't have the strength to fight it tonight.

* * *

"Hey, Harry. I'm worried about you. I know you don't want to talk to me, but send an owl or something, just so I know you're okay. Please? Alright… I know I shouldn't say this, but… I miss you. I really do, Harry. I'm sorry. Bye."

Harry held down the rewind button. Let it go.

"…know I shouldn't say this, but… I miss you. I really do, Harry. I'm sorry. Bye."

His eyes closed and his head fell forward. Just once more.

"… I miss you. I really do, Harry. I'm sorry. Bye."

Harry pressed another button. An automated woman's voice responded.

"Message deleted."

* * *

He created a routine of sorts, over the next weeks. Work as late as possible Monday through Friday, so that when he got home in the evenings he had no energy to do anything other than fall into his bed and pass out. Saturdays he allowed himself to sleep in, then went to lunch at Hermione's and Ron's house. He spent most of the afternoon with the kids, playing a complicated game they'd invented using wizarding chess pieces and chocolate frog cards. He still didn't quite understand the rules, but Hugo and Rose enjoyed it, so he did the best he could.

Saturday nights he'd pick up takeaway, plop on the couch and watch "Real Housewives of Atlanta", which, embarrassingly, he'd taken a liking to. More often than not he fell asleep in the living room and woke Sunday morning with an awful crick in his neck.

Sundays were his Harry Days. He felt like he'd lost himself some time in the last few years, and he missed having that unchangeable sense of who Harry was. He volunteered at an orphanage, or hiked a trail, or sat on a bench in the city park for hours, just watching, listening, and learning to appreciate again.

* * *

The telephone rang. Harry picked it up.

"Hello?"

There was silence on the other end.

"Hello?" Harry asked again.

A throat cleared. "Hello? Harry?"

Harry's stomach plummeted to his feet. "Yes, it's me," he managed.

"I… I didn't expect you to answer."

It was Harry's turn to clear his throat. His pulse hammered in his head. "I can hang up and let you call again, if you want."

"No! I mean, no, this is fine. I… well, I just wanted to see how you were. I haven't talked to you since… Well."

Harry shut his eyes as his chest exploded with pain. He took a deep breath, let the hurt out slowly.

"Yeah, I'm fine. How are you?" he asked. His voice was mostly steady.

"Harry…" A pause. "I miss you. I'm… miserable without you."

Harry's eyes burned.

"I'm sorry," was all he said.

There was silence, then, softly, "This isn't going to be fixed, is it, Harry?"

Harry's throat closed up. He shook his head. Swallowed. "No, it isn't. I deserve better. I'm sorry."

The voice on the other end sounded choked up. "You do deserve better. I'm sorry I couldn't give that to you." Harry said nothing. Couldn't, even if he'd known what to say. "Alright… I just wanted you to know. I think about you all the time. I'm so sorry, Harry. I'm going to go now…" Harry nodded, though he knew the other man couldn't see it. "I love you, Harry."

Harry made a strangled sound. "I love you, too," he whispered.

He hung up the phone.

* * *

The days after the phone call were possibly the worst since everything began, but Harry told himself to be strong. Each day his heart seemed to pain him a little less, the urge to call him faded a little more.

He'd never loved anyone as much as he'd loved that man, but he'd learned the hard way that the best you've ever had isn't always the best you could have.

Every time he felt weak, he turned on the telly, got caught up in some program, and forgot everything else entirely. And when he returned to the world, it didn't hurt so much.

Ron and Hermione were the best friends a guy could have, and he resolved not to take them for granted anymore. Not only did he spend Saturdays at the Weasley's, he called them. Ron had a quirky love for the "fellytone", which he'd no doubt gotten from his father, and Harry gave him the chance to play with his favorite toy.

Harry was sad a lot, but the sadness was bearable now, and he knew he would move on. He just had to allow himself time to heal, and he didn't always have to do everything alone.

His greatest comfort was his belief in fate. Everything happened for a reason. He just needed to be patient enough and strong enough to see this through to the end and find out his next story.

_End._


End file.
